Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  Ghost paused, watching the rapidly intensifying scene, unable to cross the street to his hotel. Zach was now close enough to take the suspect down, but decided it wasn’t the time and place.

  A frustrated driver exited his car, now gridlocked by the horde. He began shouting at no one in particular, his fist clenched and high. Someone must have said an unkind word in response, and in the blink of an eye, a fight broke out.

  The police moved quickly to separate the brawlers. The lawmen’s actions were misinterpreted, the students believing they were the targets of the men in uniform. As a result, all hell broke loose in front of Ghost’s hotel.

  Sam appeared in the doorway of a shop specializing in lady’s shoes, but she was on the wrong side of the street. She had no more made eye contact with her partner than Ghost spotted her as well. Without a pause, the contractor began shouting and pointing, “Texan! She’s a Texan! She’s staying at our hotel. She’s a spy!”

  The accusation drew the attention of several students at the edge of the crowd. Sam found herself suddenly surrounded by a pack of Istanbul’s most irate and volatile citizens. The ranger moved back into the entryway as the mob drew closer. She reached for the doorknob and found it locked.

  Two men stepped forward, both brandishing makeshift clubs. Everyone was shouting at the ranger, several of those in front spitting in her direction. Zach’s first instinct was to push his way through and get to his partner’s side. But if he chose that tactic, Ghost would surely spot him and escape.

  And then Tula appeared with one of his uniformed cops. With his badge in the air, he began pushing the people back.

  The throng cooperated, slowly stepping away from the tall woman in the doorway. Ghost saw what was happening and quickly stepped to a nearby trashcan. Before Zach realized his intent, the terrorist fished out a glass bottle and flung it at the cops protecting Sam.

  The bottle missed, shattering with an unusually loud pop when it hit the sidewalk. Additionally, the narrow street channeled and amplified the sound, making it difficult to identify its source. “Gun! Someone’s got a gun!” Ghost bellowed. One woman shrieked and tried to flee, slamming into the chest of a policeman. He pushed her back, and she fell – hitting the pavement hard. And that is how the riot was born.

  Tula went down, unable to stand against the surge of humanity that was now confused, angry, and sure Sam had something to do with it.

  Again, they drew tight on the lady ranger, shouting insults and waving fists in the air. In a flash, Sam reached in her purse, drew her weapon, and fired into the air.

  Ghost spotted Zach at the same instant.

  The crowd panicked, demonstrators bolting in every direction at once. It was absolute chaos. Sam, having a bit of breathing room, busted out the door’s glass and ducked into the shoe shop.

  Zach was running to keep up with Ghost.

  Tula laid in the street, trampled under the anxious throng’s feet, blood streaming from the unconscious man’s mouth and ear.

  Ghost was fast and in excellent condition, but Zach was faster, younger, and a natural athlete. Were it not for the confused sea of humanity causing both men to dart, dodge, and sidestep, Zach would have closed the gap in seconds.

  Zach’s height allowed him to see over most obstacles, his vision locked on the bobbing head of the man he so desperately wanted to catch.

  The terrorist turned several times, cutting through a narrow alley, crossing another street, and then ducking into a crowded store.

  Zach entered a few seconds behind, the process of scanning each aisle slowing the Texan down. The sound of a rear exit latching shut sent the ranger storming through the back door.

  Two shots rang out, both bullets slamming into the brick wall next to Zach’s head. The ranger was forced to duck back into the threshold, his firearm now out and ready to return fire.

  After two deep breaths, Zach sprang from the opening, his weapon covering the street. Ghost was nowhere to be seen.

  In the distance, Zach spotted his quarry running, sprinting down the narrow, cramped lane as if a pack of hell’s hounds were on his heels. “You’ll wish it was demons after your ass once I catch you, bitch,” the ranger whispered as his legs began pumping.

  The Texan gave chase, his long limbs eating up the distance and gaining ground. He watched as the suspect dodged traffic and entered what appeared to be a public park.

  The city of Istanbul evidently had a different perspective for how a park should be maintained. Rather than manicured grounds and nicely marked paths, the Texan found himself in heavy foliage and thick brush.

  The sound of a snapping branch put the Texan back on the trail.

  Pushing through the undergrowth, Zach found himself in a thick strand of trees. There was no sign of Ghost.

  Drawing his weapon, the lawman began clearing the area. He was sure the terrorist was close by and hiding.

  Ghost attacked as the ranger was rounding a thick tree, a vicious kick knocking the pistol from the Texan’s hand. As the terrorist’s knife became entangled in the Kevlar armor protecting Zach’s chest, a meaty, Texas-sized hand closed around the wielding wrist and twisted with tremendous force.

  Losing his grip on the experienced blade, Ghost howled as streaks of white-hot pain shot through his tendons. The ranger began torqueing on the limb, now confident that he had his man. Zach moved to gain additional leverage, thinking he might just go ahead and rip the bastard’s arm off at the shoulder.

  Ghost lashed out, a feeble attempt at freeing his tortured limb from the ranger’s vise-like grip. The shift in weight and balance caused Zach’s boot to become entangled in the hardwood’s extensive roots. Both men went down.

  The ex-Legionnaire was no stranger to unarmed combat. Zach was stronger, beefier, and had prevailed in his fair share of bell-ringers.

  Ghost launched a flurry of punishing, short jabs at Zach’s face. Some landing, others flaying harmlessly off the ranger’s blocking forearms.

  Zach managed to grapple an arm, leveraged with one leg and twisted with all of his strength, rolling the lighter man off his hip. In a flash, the Arab was on his feet.

  In Ghost came, throwing a series of rapid-fire snap kicks mixed with a blizzard of fists. Zach absorbed some, blocked others, all the while waiting for an opening.

  After enduring a blitz of strikes, Zach sensed his attacker’s strength was waning. Ghost’s movements were slowing, the blows stinging less and less with each impact.

  Stepping into his opponent’s roundhouse kick, Zach caught Ghost’s leg and pulled hard. Losing his balance, the tiring contractor didn’t have the wherewithal to protect his upper body. Hammer-like fists began landing, one after the other as the ranger leveraged his longer reach.

  But the terrorist-for-hire wasn’t finished, not by any means. Realizing he was facing a man with skills, Ghost managed to break away. Both men stood gasping for air, both bleeding from their noses and mouths and in serious need of ice packs and pain meds.

  This is like trying to beat the bark off an oak tree with my bare hands, the mercenary thought.

  They charged each other again, a fur ball of thrashing elbows, slicing kicks, and intense wallops. The empty park filled with the eruption of grunting, straining men locked in desperate combat, neither willing to give an inch, not an ounce of quit in either man’s core.

  Visions of Hinton entered the ranger’s mind, the dying man accepting the kitchen matches from Zach’s own hand. Then the image of the auctioneer and his innocent wife appeared… their charred, blackened bodies offset against the soft green grass of their own home. Bubba Bender joined the parade of memories, the gaping hole in the man’s chest and the copper-like smell of blood permeating the air.

  Zach roared from deep in his chest, breaking a hold and renewing the assault. Powerful, brutal blows were landing now, each impact sending Ghost reeling on his heels. The contractor went down, tried to rise, and collapsed again to the earth.

  The ranger loomed over his panting
foe for several seconds, the hatred in Zach’s eyes burning into the man at his feet.

  “Get up!” Zach shouted between breaths. “I want to kill you with my bare hands. I want to make you pay.”

  But Ghost couldn’t rise. He was done.

  Zach stepped to retrieve his pistol, picking up the .45 and returning to the still-prone Ghost. The Texan dropped to one knee and mashed the cocked weapon against the terrorist’s head. “I’m going to enjoy this,” the ranger hissed.

  “Wait,” Ghost pleaded. “Spare me, and I will help you.”

  “Help me?” Zach laughed. “How on God’s earth could scum like you possibly help me?”

  “I have what you are looking for… the Texas soldiers’ blood,” the weakened man replied. “I have files that document every operation that has been launched against your Republic.”

  Zach spit a mouthful of blood into the grass and shook his head. “Bullshit. I know they call you Ghost, and I know why. Do you really expect me to buy that line of crap?”

  The barrel of Zach’s weapon pressed against Ghost’s temple. The Arab recognized the hatred in Zach’s eyes… sensed enough malice for murder. Again, he tried a desperate bargain. “I know where the captured pilots are being held. I can help you bring them back.”

  His words only pissed Zach off. “Do all of you fanatics start whimpering like little girls right before the end? I thought you wanted to be a martyr. I thought you wanted to sit at Allah’s side. Isn’t that where the virgins wait? Here… let me show you the way.”

  The ranger’s muscles tightened, pressure increasing against the trigger.

  “I am not a radical, nor a hard-core believer. I am a businessman. I work for the highest bidder. Today, I learned that ISIS cannot pay my invoice. I want to hurt them for this treachery. Kill me if you will, but I beg you, please give me the chance to take my revenge before you do.”

  Something in the man’s voice rang true. Zach paused, relaxing his trigger finger. “And how would you go about extracting this vengeance? What is it you are offering me?”

  “I am familiar with their operations. I will tell you everything I know. If you decide to end my life afterward, then I will die knowing my retribution was complete.”

  Zach thought about Texas, about the impending war, and about how many more people would die. The man at the end of his gun barrel probably possessed enough valuable information to save hundreds, if not thousands of innocent lives.

  And wasn’t that why he joined the Texas Rangers in the beginning? Wasn’t it all about protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves? Wasn’t that why he pinned on a badge and holstered a gun every day?

  “Okay, partner, tell me this tall tale… and make it good. Perhaps you’ll live another day.”

  Twenty minutes later, Zach reached for his cell phone to call his partner, only to find the tiny glass screen had been shattered during the brawl. “Damn it,” he whispered. “Putnam’s head is going to explode when he sees my expense report.”

  Sam clung to the shadows until the crowd had thinned enough to drag Tula off the street. She did her best to comfort the gravely wounded man until more police arrived on the scene.

  Flagging down two nearby uniforms, she waved them to the inspector and tried to communicate what had transpired. Only her ID and diplomatic passport saved her from arrest.

  After watching Tula being loaded into an ambulance, she wandered around for several blocks, in search of Zach. She dialed his cell number no less than a dozen times. No answer.

  There was still turmoil in the Istanbul streets, and the light was fading. Not a good place for a Texan, especially a lone woman. She decided to return to the hotel and wait for Zach to get in touch.

  After checking for messages, she undressed for a shower. The hot water and soap improved both mind and body. Exiting the tiny bathroom, her heart jumped when she saw a red light blinking on the bedside phone. A message!

  Dialing the lobby, she had to wait until someone who spoke English was handed the phone. “Yes, Miss Temple, there is a package at the front desk for you.”

  Dressing quickly, she hustled for the lobby. There, the clerk handed her a tightly wrapped bundle complete with Zach’s handwriting on the front. “Samantha Temple – Private and Confidential.”

  After returning to her room, Sam wasted no time tearing open the wrapping. Inside she found a plastic bag filled with ice and three vials of human blood. There was a note from Zach on hotel stationery. “These are the blood samples from the three dead soldiers. I think you’ll find them full of a potent sedative. In addition, check the three dead troopers for puncture marks. You’ll find one of them was injected low… in the back of his thigh. And one more thing, check to see if the Turkish unit that was attacked had been issued hand grenades. According to what I’ve learned, it’s rare in their army. If this is true, how were our guys killed by shrapnel? All of this should be enough to delay the conflict. I have Ghost. We are going after the downed pilots in Syria. Call the major and have him warn Central Command that I’ll be bringing them in. Sorry about all the cloak and dagger shit. Get those samples processed and stop the damn war. Zach.”

  Chapter 15

  Salim chewed on the flatbread, wishing there was honey, or spiced oil, or something to accompany the mundane meal. Such things were rare now in Daesh, at least since the Texans had invaded their lands.

  The thought reminded him of the prisoners.

  Nodding to one of his team, Salim rose wearily and trudged toward the stone wall shed that served as a prison.

  Originally, it had been an outbuilding, probably used to store tools and a few bags of grain. Now it housed the two captives, at least for another day or two. The caliphate continually relocated hostages, fearful of desperate governments trying to rescue rather than pay any ransom.

  There wasn’t room for a single man to lie prone, let alone two. Salim pried back one of the weighty, wooden boards that barricaded the structure’s only tiny window. He found each of them had selected a corner. The Turk was asleep, the Texan wincing as light flooded the dark interior.

  Both of them were breathing and imprisoned according to his orders.

  “Keep them alive, sheltered and secure. Feed them once a day. Water is to be delivered twice daily. Those are your responsibilities,” the ISIS commander had instructed him. “Your men will be paid as soon as the Texans and Turks pay the ransom. It won’t be long.”

  The Texan looked weak, red welts covering most of his face and neck. Salim had seen it all before, the fighters who had captured the downed pilot tended to be a little charged-up and aggressive. The man had taken a beating.

  “I need a doctor,” rasped the Texan after his eyes had adjusted.

  Salim didn’t understand the words and didn’t care. Others from the Daesh would soon retrieve the two hostages so his team could get back to the business of exterminating Assad’s henchmen.

  A sharp, short whistle sounded at the edge of the hamlet, a warning from the sentry. It wasn’t the alarm - that was a completely different sound. No need to panic or seek cover.

  Salim rounded the building and noted two men on horses riding in his direction. A camel hauled a small wagon, the wooden-wheeled cart bouncing and rattling across the rough terrain. The riders wore the flowing, white robes of Bedouin herders. Each carried an AK47 slung across his back.

  Salim had seen the nomadic tribesmen before. They were a common feature of the southern deserts until the civil war had begun. Now, the vast majority herded their goats and camels on Saudi ground.

  The closest sentry stepped out of his secluded hide, holding up a hand and ordering the visitors to stop. Unwrapping his kufiya to expose his face, the lead rider smiled a friendly greeting. The guard immediately bowed and waved them past.

  It was another minute before they were close enough for Salim to recognize Ghost. It had been months since the mission to the port and the trip back carrying the crate of equipment. So much had changed since then.

/>   The riders dismounted after reaching the center of the hamlet, Ghost approaching his old comrade with open arms. After a brief embrace and back pat, Ghost produced a small package of salted meat and pure honey.

  “A gift,” he explained in Arabic. “For such loyal, sacrificing men. We are here to move the pilots.”

  Any doubts Salim had once had about the mysterious Ghost had long passed. The ruling council of the Daesh had embraced the man. That was good enough for the young rebel.

  “I’ll have them prepared immediately,” Salim replied, turning to bark a string of orders to his men.

  No one noticed that Ghost’s rifle was empty, nor did any of the guards take note that the man with Ghost always stayed at an angle where he could cover the local legend.

  Zach’s presence, however, wasn’t ignored.

  “How are you, brother,” Salim asked Zach in Arabic while the prisoners were being retrieved.

  Ghost turned and pointed toward his stoic companion. “This man is in my employ. He is from Spain, trustworthy, and a healer. He doesn’t speak our language. We must ensure that the prisoners are well enough to travel before we load them into the wagon. The ransom will be paid soon, and the Daesh wants them returned in reasonable health.”

  “Ah,” Salim replied, now eyeing the foreigner with some suspicion.

  The two pilots were dragged out of the shed, a guard under each arm. Both were dumped on the ground at Ghost’s feet.

  Taking a knee next to the Texas flyer, Zach’s first act was to give the man a bottle of water from his satchel. “I need a doctor,” groaned the clearly hurting pilot.

  “No hablo ingles,” Zach replied for the benefit of the nearby guards.

  There was little Zach could do for the man’s injuries. He offered a stick of beef jerky, but the pilot shook his head, “They beat me until my teeth are loose. They would fall out if I tried to eat that.”